Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

“You’ll feel me for days,” I hissed, and I damn well knew she would.

She cried out, arms still gripping tight as my thumb pressed to her swollen clit. I shouldn’t play nice. Not here and now.

But I found myself teasing her all the same.

“Pain doesn’t always hurt, little girl,” I told her and found her groove.

Her pussy gripped my fingers tight, even though the stretch must have hurt like sin, her hips rocking for more of my thumb as I coaxed.

She was needy. Whimpering hard as I forced the rhythm.

“Owww,” she rasped as I circled my wrist.

“Good girl,” I told her. “Take what you’re given.”

She took exactly what she was given.

My hand plugged her to the knuckles, opening up that precious little slit like a cavern. She was slick and hungry, even through the pain, bucking against my thumb like a horny little bitch.

And that’s when I knew beyond all doubt.

She was worth more than Rebecca Lane. Worth more than the protesting little cow waiting back in the webcam room for me. This girl – this delicate little pixie wench with four of my fingers jammed in her hungry little cunt – was worth an obscene fucking fortune to the dirty billionaires slavering through a webcam screen.

And an obscene fucking fortune to me.

“Come for me,” I hissed at her. “Come for me like a needy little slut who wants the pain.”

If she didn’t, she made a damn good show of pretending. Her whole body rocked and writhed, her breaths heavy and panting as she moaned.

The sounds were delicious, thick and wet. Her dripping pussy was spilling juice down my wrist.

She was perfect. A money machine waiting to happen. A new blank canvas for every filthy sin her body could take.

And I’d be the one to make her take them. Every single fucking one.

Pain. Punishment. Pleasure.

I’d give them all.

Better and worse than she’d ever imagine, all at once, all for me.

And then I’d pass her on to the highest bidders.

“Two hundred and fifty grand,” I offered. “Sell me your soul for sixty days and you’ll have the whole fucking lot of it.”

Her hiss was feral. Pained and desperate. Her grip tightened around my shoulders.

“Two hundred and fifty?! You mean it?” she rasped. “All that money? You really, really mean it?”

I fucking meant it alright.

“Come for me and we’ll talk details,” I told her, and I meant that too.

Her answer was enough to make my balls clench. Enough to make my mouth water worse than her slick wet cunt.

“Then hurt me more,” she said.Chapter ElevenPaigeHe was terrifying.

Huge and threatening with eyes dark enough to give me shivers.

His fingers were burning inside me, stretching me so deep I could feel him in my stomach. His thumb was a master on the place that felt just right, rubbing so hard my legs were buckling.

I shouldn’t have wanted him.

Shouldn’t have wanted any of this.

I should have run a mile and begged the local emergency room for some kind of desperation therapy. I should be scared for my own sanity and everything I thought I stood for.

But I couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

His shoulders were wide and firm, taking my weight without a scrap of protest. His words were black velvet, barbed with thorns I was desperate to feel.

And the money.

So much money.

Two hundred and fifty grand could give me everything.

Everything I’d ever wanted, and more. Everything.

His eyes widened for a just a beat as I asked him for more pain. It was enough.

Enough to see my own surprise reflected back at me. My own crazy needs bursting free in a way I’d have never believed in a million years.

The wall was cold at my back, my frame dwarfed so insanely by his that the streetlights above offered nothing more than a dim orange glow behind him.

He looked every bit the dark god he was claiming to be, and I felt every bit the sinner begging for mercy.

“Only dirty little girls like it rough,” he said.

It made me shiver, my pussy clamping even tighter around his fingers as he slammed me hard.

I wondered if he’d make it hurt worse down there. I wondered if I’d asked for too much as the sparks from my clit drove me ragged.

But no.

My tits were already spilling free from the groping earlier. I cried out loud as his fingers dug into tender flesh. He clenched and twisted, hurting me like I’d never been hurt in my life, then pulled at my nipple so hard I sucked in breath.

“A perfect handful,” he said, and did it again. “I do love my girls with perfect little tits.”

Love.

It was the most fucked up use of love I’d ever heard, but my soul didn’t care.

Even in that pitiful, pathetic little heartbeat I knew I’d do whatever it took to hear him say that word again. But I shouldn’t. God help me, I shouldn’t.